Chapter One

I
signaled slightly with both hands for him to keep it down as I backed
towards the kitchen sink with him drifting my way.

“What?” he asked irritated. His head pivoted between the discussion in
the living room and me.

“Who’s the fox?” It
was a question I mouthed silently. Allison was in earshot.

“Which one?” whispered Bakman, his eyes bouncing back and forth between
Constance Pitts and the beauty that was piquing my interest at the
moment. Bakman strained to read my lips. “I know who that one
is,” I pantomimed, motioning towards Connie, who was definitely worth
the hunt. She was tiny, shapely and gorgeous. She carried herself like a
Nubian princess. She was our neighbor.

Allison and I lived in a modern high-rise complex called Prairie Towers.
About a year before we took up residence, Connie moved into the complex
seeking refuge. She was the former Chicago Chronicle-Observer
reporter who broke the story about Toni Tolliver, the up-and-coming
mulatto television series actress, and her secret, out-of-wedlock
childbirth. Tolliver had managed to hide her pregnancy from close
friends, relatives and gossip columnists. About the time she would have
begun to show, she vanished from public view. Constance’s front-page
story reported that Tolliver was holed up in Lake Point Tower, the new
luxury high-rise building at the footprint of Navy Pier. That she had
given birth to a seven-pound, six-ounce baby boy. And that the infant’s
alleged father was none other than the cosmos preacher, Rev. Billy
Crowe.

A fanatical bunch of the righteous reverend’s
flock from Mission JAB--Justice Advocating Blacks--became indignant and
vengeful. They picketed, morning, noon and night, in front of the Hyde
Park two-flat where Constance lived. Both Tolliver and Crowe denied the
minister was the father of the child. But Tolliver never got around to
naming who was and no one stepped forward to claim the honor.

For three months, Constance suffered through the angry pickets and
unrelenting charges that she was a lying, shameful sell-out. She
steadfastly refused to “dignify with a response” the rumor that but
for-the-grace-of-God someone could have reported a similar story about
her. She dismissed as “character assassination” the gossip that she had
been a secret lover to the reverend, duly noting that she and Mrs. Crowe
knew each other on a social as well as professional basis. In the end,
her suffering paid off. Constance was offered a reporting job by one of
the local network television stations.

“Not
her, Jerk-off. You and I both know who she is,” I lip spoke and
motioned. “The other fox.”

“Later, Mr.
Pierce,” Bakman grinned, turning back to the meeting.

That was good enough for me since I had no business allowing myself the
diversion. After all, this was a meeting I had called. Well, Allison
and I had called. Allison stood with her back to the view from our
living room. The city skyline, glowing a deep golden orange from the
sunset, served as her backdrop. “For the past few months, some of y’all
have been talking about forming an organization of Black journalists. So
Pierce and I figured that maybe we all should stop talking about it
and do something about it,” Allison said, pausing to underscore
her point.

“You know, we all have our
personal ambitions. We all want to get ahead. Most of us want a cushy
crib, a long ride and a fat bankroll. That’s cool,” Allison said,
swatting away any flickering notions of disagreement that may have been
polluting the air. “I’m not going to knock that. But, I think we need to
face facts: that probably ain’t gone happen for most of us unless all
of us come up with a plan for The Man. We’ve got to put pressure on
these white bosses at these major media companies to hire more of us.”

The heads of the dozen journalists in the room bobbed off beat. The fox
sat wide-eyed and open. She was all legs. I nudged Bakman. Gave him
the old “can you imagine those babies wrapped around your waist” look.
He gave me the nod. Her skin tone was a deep rich dark chocolate. That
was where her blackness started and seemed to end. Her features were
European. Her eyes were a curious hazel color. She wore an Afro that
wasn’t; her dark auburn hair too fine to work as a ‘fro but she was
styling it anyway. It was a huge delicate ball, threatening to collapse
under its own weight. Overall, the fox looked like a well-built white
girl dipped in creamy hot fudge.

Roy Reed Wright, a
brother I’d seen around town from time to time, had his eyes on her
too. He gave her a wink as he whipped out his Berkshire pipe. I watched
him as his eyes shifted from Allison to the fox then back to Allison. I
knew the look.

Rudolph Lomax rose to
speak. “For those of you who don’t know me,” he started with
disingenuous modesty. Everybody at the meeting read the Chicago
Chronicle-Observer, which ran a photograph of him atop his column and
watched, Back to Black, his weekly public affairs TV talk show.
We knew who he was.